We were made to never fall away
by PuffleHuff
Summary: "He'd rather be asleep. He'd rather be dreaming peacefully, safe in his bed. Not constantly in danger, constantly afraid." Scott-Derek-Stiles drama, Danny-Stiles friendship, pack break-down, OC. Eventual Sterek. T for mature themes, language, implied violence. No smut. See a/n inside.
1. Chapter 1

******Title:** We were made to never fall away**  
****Rating:** T for complex themes, implied sexuality, strong language, eventual violence  
**Characters: **Stiles, Stiles-Danny friendship, Scott-Derek-Stiles drama, Stiles/OC, eventual Sterek**. **One supporting OC throughout.**  
****Spoilers: **References and possible eventual spoilers through end of season two******.**  
Author's Note: At this point, this is a mostly unedited flight of fancy, written feverishly, nearly straight through, over the course of an hour or two, maybe. Loosely inspired by a gif from the video Genesis by someone called Grimes. I've never seen the video, just the gif. Please feel free to read, and further, please feel free to comment or review if you'd like. Please also be aware that this is a highly personal/selfish piece, however, and that I rarely post these. Thank you.  
**Title Credit:** lyric from "Letter from the Sky," by Civil Twilight**  
****Edit 9/30/12: **Because I'm having a lot of trouble with the Doc Manager here on FF, I have reverted to using binary in my break-markers. The "insert horizontal line" function does not like me at all. First person to identify the "code" wins!**  
****Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, plot, etc. are the property of the creators of Teen Wolf. Any original characters, settings and plots are the property of PuffleHuff. PuffleHuff is in no way associated with Teen Wolf, and no copyright infringement is intended. This work is an amateur fan effort and no profit is being made.**

* * *

10001110101  
She came to him carrying a flaming sword. It was just a dream, though, so it didn't seem all that peculiar. But it still felt intimidating.

She looked a little rakish, a little roguish, rather waifish. Her long hair was matted, her dress hung askance, her makeup, smudged.

There was a heart tattooed on the inside of her left elbow, and a dark and oddly shaped bruise at her collar bone.

"What happened there?" he asked, arm outstretched to point out the dark spot.

A herd of bison wandered across the distant landscape.

"You did," she smiled darkly.

His fingertips grazed the bare skin of her shoulder. She was cool to the touch, and the sun was setting. She couldn't possibly keep warm by the fire of her sword in the night.

"What do you mean?" he sluggishly asked, not understanding her answer.

She raised the sword above her head and he backed away. He could still feel her under his fingers though she stared him down from afar. She was slipping back into the desert and that sword was swinging down upon him.

"You're going to wake up," she shouted, though he heard no more than a whisper.

* * *

10001110101  
"Stiles. Stiles!" Sheriff Stilinski was shaking his son awake. "Come on! Get a hustle on! You want a ride to school or what?"

Right, his Jeep was still in the shop.

"Yeah, Dad. I'm up," he groggily replied, waving his father away. A dark suspicion that he was forgetting something important nagged the back of his mind.

* * *

10001110101  
School was school. There were people, there were teachers, there were werewolves. Stiles felt tired, worn down. There'd been too many late nights with the wolf pack lately, and it was taking its toll. He'd been staring aimlessly out the window for several minutes before he realized the dark shape of Derek Hale was staring back at him from the treeline across the field. He just shook his head, not caring at all what was going on, and returned his attention to whatever it was Finstock's lecture was about.

Scott too, it seemed, had noticed Derek Hale across the field, and was being reprimanded for spacing out instead of answering Finstock's question. Whatever.

* * *

10001110101  
"You alright, man?" Danny's face showed genuine concern when Stiles came around again. He was standing, arms shoved through his t-shirt sleeves, half-dressed, in front of his locker. Lacrosse practice, and once again he'd been relinquished to the bench.

"Yeah, just tired," Stiles tried to brush it off.

"'Cause you've been standing there for like, ten minutes."

A quick sweep of the locker room confirmed that, indeed, most of the team had already departed. He nodded quickly, pulling his shirt over his head and shoving his hand into his backpack to fish out his phone.

Dad couldn't pick him up, he'd have to find a ride home.

Stiles had seen Danny wander away from the corner of his eye, but could still hear the taller boy rummaging in his own locker.

"Hey Danny? Could I ask a favor?"

The boy smirked and sighed. "I've told you, Stiles. You aren't my type." He laughed softly.

"Nonono, dude," Stiles brushed off the joke. "I just need a ride."

* * *

10001110101  
Stiles refrained from taking his usual self-medicated dose of Adderall and completed his homework at regular speed. He chopped together a salad when his dad stopped home for dinner, and ignored the text messages Scott and Allison sent him while trying to locate each other. He felt sluggish and slow, and not at all interested in being conscious.

He took too long in the shower and fell asleep on top of his bedsheets with just his bath towel around him.

* * *

10001110101  
Her sword wasn't on fire the second time. It hung at her hip and thumped faintly against the bone there as she walked. He walked toward her, and she toward him, though they never covered any ground. She was perpetually six steps away.

The mark at her collar bone seemed darker somehow, if that was even possible. And pricked with red.

"What happened there?" he asked again, raising his hand but unable to reach her.

She smirked impatiently. "You did," she answered again.

"When?" Maybe if he moved a little faster he could catch up to her.

"A better question," her mouth broke into a less condescending smile. "Not yet."

She stopped walking, the rhythm of metal on bone ceasing, but the gap between them remained. It had gotten dark, but the sun had never gone down. The stars were barely coming out. The desert was lit by an inexplicable light between them.

"Then how did that...?" He tried to run, but the sand and scree fell away beneath him. He was finally making progress, but at an insignificant rate.

She reached out for him, mirroring his own gesture, sliding her fingertips across the angles of his face, though he could not attain hers.

"You'll see."

Her look was menacing and entrancing.

* * *

10001110101  
"You never called me back last night! What's up with you, Stiles?" Scott was giving him the third degree while he picked over his tater-tots.

The lunchroom was loud with activity and the raging rumor mill of Beacon Hills High. Who was doing who, who was cheating with whose papers, who was dealing what drugs. Who'd been attacked by what mythical creature.

"Nothing. I fell asleep early," he shrugged. "Sorry."

"Whoa. Seriously? That's not like you."

"Yeah, well. Wolf-business takes its toll on the non-super-powered, Scott." It also wasn't like Stiles to snap with so little humor to temper his blows.

"Jeez," Scott raised his hands as if to say _I'm backing away slowly, here_. "Maybe you're getting sick."

Stiles tried to settle his anger, relenting for the sake of his preternaturally gifted yet wildly naïve best friend.

"Yeah, maybe I am."

* * *

10001110101  
They were sitting in the bed of a rusted out pickup truck. The bison could be heard roaming through the sparse desert grass nearby. The sword was on fire again, and they each grasped the hilt with one hand as they held it out in front of them.

It's so dark around them, but he knew that if the fire went out the stars would be bright enough to illuminate the landscape for miles around.

He can see her more clearly like this. Her hair flies freer around her face in the breeze. Her makeup seems less dark and cakey. Her dress fits tighter and is quite flattering. Here eyes are still fierce, but her mouth is soft.

She smiled easily when she notices him watching her.

"When did that happen?" he asked, eyes going to the angry red and purple bruise running between her neck and shoulder.

"Soon," she said. She sounded happier, and stared obviously at his lips.

He wanted to put his arm around her, let her do whatever it is she's going to do to him. But they're holding the sword up between them. So he's content to feel the cold flesh of her inner arm pressed up against his.

She was still staring coquettishly at his mouth when the right question finally dawns on him.

"Why?"

Her smile widened as she leaned forward, twisting to fully to face him.

Her lips were just barely warmer than her arms, but soft, soft. So soft, like maybe what kissing a cloud would feel like. If clouds were corporeal. And his mind weren't racing.

"I'm waking up," he said without breaking away, noticing all the signs.

Her eyes squeezed shut even tighter and she kissed him harder, pressing their mouths fiercely.

He could feel her nodding against him. Sensed her slipping away.

He grasped the hilt of the sword as tight as he could as he spun up into the night sky.

* * *

10001110101  
Stiles sat straight up in bed, drenched in cool sweat, sputtering into wakefulness.

It wasn't even dawn yet, and his heart was racing. He fell back against his pillows with a groan and willed himself back to a fitful, dreamless sleep.

10001110101  
Scott was glaring pointedly at the side of Stiles' face, he could tell. He turned a charming, _what are you going to do about it_ look on his friend and Scott slammed his locker shut. It looked like maybe he would say something, but he quickly shut his mouth again, leaving stiles with one last glare before stalking away.

Stiles continued to slowly redress and pack in his gear, oblivious to Danny's approach.

"You and McCall having trouble at home, Stiles?" he teased gently.

"Why? You interested, Danny?" Stiles joked back. "Thought I wasn't your type."

"You aren't." His teammate laughed it off.

Danny was a cool kid, if infuriatingly collected about being the only opening gay student in the athletic department. Maybe it was because there wasn't as much emotional investment in their friendship, but it didn't bother Stiles that Danny seemed to take notice of his change in mood lately. So it didn't really strike Stiles as meddling when he offered a little more friendliness than usual.

"I know you know, Stiles, that just because I'm gay doesn't mean I'm after every guy on the team."

Stiles nodded in agreement.  
"So, if you need a break from McCall and all that Allison Argent drama, you're welcome to come out with me as like, my wingman sometime."

Danny smiled warmly and clapped Stiles on the shoulder as the shorter boy let the offer sink in.

"I'd like that. I could definitely use a break from all of... that." He gestured vaguely in the direction of Scott's locker while pulling a squeamish face. Both boys laughed heavily at the effect Stiles' motion had on the mood.

"Cool, man. Just let me know." Danny clapped Stiles' shoulder once more.

10001110101  
It'd been a long ride, but surprisingly the sun was just barely set when they arrived in the middle of nowhere. Or what would have been nowhere if it weren't for the dozens of cars parked all over, the hundreds of people roaming about, and the blast of over-amplified music ringing through the desert.

Danny had provided Stiles with a fake i.d. and a brief run through of how these parties usually went down. He'd coached Stiles on what not to say to Danny's potential catch and when to make himself scarce. Which was what Stiles was doing when he wandered toward the bar for a refill and noticed a wild girl dancing.

She was lithe and spontaneous, and stunningly captivating in a way Lydia Martin would never be. She wove her way in and out of a constantly shifting stream of partners, circling back now and again to her favorites. Dancing with a mischievous half-smile playing at her lips.

Her hair was long and tangled, her dress dark, her hips wide for her skinny frame. And she was so familiar. Stiles mentally kicked himself for being unable to place her face. He followed her movement continually, until she finally noticed him noticing her.

He smiled as she approached, faintly giddy with the music, the drink, and the lecherous thought of dancing with a beautiful girl. Even if it wasn't Lydia, whom he'd loved since third grade.

"Do I know you?" he asked with a silly grin. Which she returned.

"You must, with that look in your eye." Her voice jogged a foggy memory in his mind.

"Dance with me," she insisted, pulling him into the crowd.

* * *

10001110101  
He was falling back, into the desert. Onto a mattress someone had drug out there. She was writhing in his arms. Over him, under him, their lips barely parting. Her mouth bewitched him. His hands discovered her angles and planes. She was smooth and soft and angular. He was strong and gentle and seduced by her mischief.

His mouth broke away, gasping in lungfuls of dry desert air. Her hands fisted the hem of his shirt, pulling him closer. His lips found her ear, her neck, her clavicle. She shuddered under his touch, whimpered, goading him on.

It was hard to keep breathing. He fell away, ensnaring her fingers in his hand, she entangling her legs with his limbs.

He took her in. Fingertips roaming more slowly. He cataloged her features. She memorized the freckles of his face. His thumb fluttered over the heart-shaped marking on her inner arm.

"I must be dreaming," he murmured, turning to her. He ran his palm across her cheek, over her hair.

"No," she smiled. "We aren't asleep yet."  
"Yes, we must be," he insisted dazedly. "There's no other explanation for this night."

He tugged her in closer once more, wrapping his arms around her, tucking her into the contours of himself. Lacing his fingers in her hair.

She nestled into the crook of his shoulder, pressed her lips to his chest. A comforting heat spread out through his body, radiating the warmth of her kiss back to her.

And everything was darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** _Again, mostly unedit__ed. I'm writing this entirely for my own interests and ego, so please be gentle if/when you decide to comment or review. Thank you and enjoy._

* * *

10001110101  
He woke with a start. It was cold. He shivered, pulling his limbs in on himself while someone rustled against him.

He peaked open an eye, groggily focusing on the blonde girl who'd nestled into his side. She wore his red hoodie over her arms, but her legs remained bare. She was unconventionally attractive, curled up around his arm like that. A bit like cuddling a gorgeous, exotic, yet poisonous creature.

With both eyes now open, Stiles observed the girl's slumbering features. She was nothing like his type, because he'd only had eyes for Lydia Martin since elementary school. But she was undeniably appealing, and represented to Stiles a sort of triumph over the monotony that had become his life recently. He'd broken out of his mold.

She was comprised of opposites: sharp angles, smooth, pale skin, dark eyes and dress, bright expressions. An angry purple 'love' mark bloomed on her alabaster shoulder.

He brushed a stray tangle of hair off her face and she stirred. Her lips curled up and she practically purred, unfurling her slender limbs in a stretch that shook her. And then her eyes were open and on his.

"I've been dreaming that you cut off my head with a flaming sword," he murmured for lack of anything better to say.

"Well that's too bad. I like your head where it is," she smiled, reaching out to touch a freckle on his cheek.

She was practically a stranger. Was a stranger, aside from the dancing, and the kissing, and the caressing, and... Stiles' mind wandered a bit while she shivered against him. His arms wrapped around her automatically and he rubbed warmth into her back.

"'S too cold," she mumbled into his chest as they gradually warmed up.

"How'd you get here?" Stiles asked as the thought of this girl disappearing with his hoodie dawned on him.

"Came with friends. You?"

"Same." He yawned widely.

It was quiet for a while. Stiles thought about kissing her again, but as the dusty dawn light sharpened into morning the realization of what had actually gone on was feeling less and less appealing. He didn't regret it exactly. Not at all. He just didn't know where to go from here. He'd never had to think about it before.

* * *

10001110101  
When he woke again she lay over his side, tucked in under his chin and wrapped around his leg. It was warmer and brighter out, and Stiles half-wondered where Danny might have got off to in the night.

He looked down at the top of her head. There were bits of sand, glitter, and confetti in her hair. His chest ached faintly where the bones of her jaw pressed against him. He wanted to stretch, vaguely needed to pee, but didn't want to be rude by disturbing the sleeping girl.

Except she wasn't asleep.

He stroked her hair and her gaze turned up to him.

"I didn't want to just leave while you were sleeping," she said, pressing up into the heals of her hands to hover over him.

"Thank you." He stretched and stood, then stooped to help her off the mat they'd acquired sometime in the night. She smiled mischievously while he got his bearings.

"Um, do you mind standing right -" he took her by the shoulders "-here, while I go have a word with that bush?"

She giggled. She had a much more girlish giggle than he'd anticipated, but she nodded in agreement.

* * *

10001110101  
"Great! Thanks for not leaving me, dude," Stiles enthused when they'd finally located Danny's car.

"Of course. I've just been napping," the tall lacrosse goalie replied with a slight smirk in the girl's direction.

She tugged Stiles away a few paces while the boy cast a look of _just one minute_ back at Danny.

"Listen," Stiles began before she could speak, "Thanks for everything. I had a really-"

"No, don't do that," she interrupted. "You don't have to try to smooth this over or anything. I know I'm not going to see you again. It's a choice I made, too."

She rose up onto her toes and kissed his cheek, his mouth, taking him by surprise. She lingered just a moment longer with her hand on his chest.

"Thanks," she whispered. She slipped out of his hoodie and handed it back to him.

"No, thank you!" he called after her as she flitted through the debris of bottles, cans, and drunken bodies.

When Stiles returned to the car Danny's eyebrows were in his hairline.

* * *

10001110101  
The drive back to Beacon Hills was quiet, though both boys' faces occasionally slipped into sheepish grins.

The one mistake that broke the comfortable silence was Danny's question of "what about Lydia?"

Stiles' first instinct was to rebuff with a "what about her?," but he tried to play it cool.

"I guess it's obvious," he hedged.

"Like, since middle school," Danny confirmed.

"Aren't you 'sposed to be Jackson's best friend," Stiles countered, a little more on edge.

"Yeah, but whatever man. Those two are more fucked up than McCall and Argent. I mean, come on!"

Stiles was amused by Danny's seeming disapproval of the Lydia-Jackson pairing, and by his enthusiastic distaste for the relationship rumor mill that surrounded their high school in general. The question of Lydia easily slipped their minds.

* * *

10001110101  
Scott McCall and Derek Hale were standing in the yard of the Stilinski house when Danny's car pulled up. Sheriff Stilinski's squad car was nowhere to be seen, and Stiles was silently thankful that he'd be able to shower and sleep again before meeting his father. He was not grateful, however, for the werewolf welcoming party on his front lawn when an oblivious Danny was accompanying him.

"Jesus, Stiles! Where have you been?" Scott questioned as the teammates approached the house.

Danny gave Stiles an inquiring look before glancing between Scott and Derek, while the shorter of the two boys unlocked the door.

"Danny and I went camping. In the desert." Stiles held the door wide for his companion to enter ahead of him, while barring the door to the wolves. "It's just to the right past the stairs," he called after Danny.

"Then why do you smell like sex?" Derek broke his glowering silence with an angry rebuff.

Stiles could feel the heat rise in his face as his mouth fell open. Alpha-sourwolf Derek Hale had not just called Stiles out on his sex life. That did not happen.

"Not that it's any of your business." Stiles' expression was so stern as to seem comical. He willed his tell-tale heart not to race.  
"Whoa, man! I know you're not dating Danny!" Scott insisted, searching first Stiles' face and then Derek's for some break in the hostility, holding his arms apart between them like a buffer. "Jeez, Derek!"

Danny came ambling back from the bathroom to find the tension clearly not diffused.

"Thanks, Stiles. Think I'm just gonna head home and crash. I'll see you at morning practice Monday?" he asked.

"Yeah Danny. Thanks _so_ much!" Stiles enthused pointedly with a look toward the Alpha. His teammate retreated to the drama-free safety of his car.

"McCall. Miguel" Danny acknowledged as he passed.

* * *

10001110101  
"Why'd Danny call you Miguel?" Scott was questioning Derek, and the room at large, while no one paid him any attention. "Is that really what that smells like? Do I smell like that?" His incessant chatter was easy to tune out.

Stiles paced the room slowly, attempting and failing to calm the unjustifiable anger he was feeling toward his naïve best friend and his Alpha. Since he'd arrived home, pulling into the drive to see Scott and Derek on his lawn, Stiles had felt a growing heat in his body. All he wanted was to have a shower and lie down for a while, but Scott wouldn't leave.

And who knew why Derek was there?

None of Scott's words were sinking in as Derek watched Stiles pace.

"Look," Stiles finally halted, turning on the werewolves in the room. "I've just been really sick of hanging out with the supernatural crowd lately, and I needed some time. I know I'm the most brilliant mind you've got, but I got tired of not measuring up to your... brawn. So I went to a rave with Danny and bunch of _normal_ humans to cleared my head a little."

Derek snorted at the use of the expression, clearly smelling stale alcohol on the boy. Stiles shot him a _just don't_ look and continued.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you I was going. I'm sorry I left my phone off. I mean, I was in the middle of nowhere, anyway! I just needed a break!" Stiles swayed on the spot, his voice rising.

"It's okay, Stiles," Scott soothed. "I'm sorry, too. I've been bugging you a lot about this stuff – and homework – lately. I should have been able to give you space. Sorry," he repeated. "We good?"

Stiles nodded and the world tilted. Derek sensed it before Scott did, but they both caught the boy by the arms before he crashed to the ground.

Stiles' forehead beaded sweat and he clutched at his chest through his shirt. Scott pillowed his head with a sweatshirt pilfered from the nearby laundry basket.

"Whoa, man. Are you okay?"

"My chest, dude."

"Did you do anything at that rave?" Scott's voice warped in Stiles' ears.

"He doesn't smell right." Derek? "What happened in the desert?"

"Oh, my head. I'm hot! I'm hot!" Stiles was slipping fast into a delirium. He clawed his chest and drew circles in the air.

The werewolves questioned him, held him steady as he slipped away.

* * *

10001110101  
Stiles couldn't quite recall how he'd gotten from the floor to his bed until he finally forced his eyes open and saw the werewolves crowded around his room. They'd multiplied in his absence of consciousness.

Boyd sat stoically on the end of the bed, Isaac paced nervously back and forth across the room, Erica sneered from the doorway, and Scott hovered anxiously beside Stiles' pillow. The pack's Alpha was not readily visible, but as Stiles showed signs of stirring a pair of red eyes glowed from the corner.

"'Sgoin' on, guys?" Stiles slurred as he tried to sit it up, but Scott's firm hands pushed him back against the pillows. "Havin' a surprise party? I'm surprised."

"He's clearly still delirious," Boyd gently observed.

"And he reeks," Erica added.

"Guys!" Scott silenced the bickering Betas before they could get out of hand. His attention returned to his best friend. "Stiles, what's going on?"

"How should I know? I was fine until you clowns showed up. Maybe I've developed a werewolf allergy." Stiles' sense of humor, although not quite up to par, was beginning to make a comeback. "All I know's that I had a fucking _great_ time at a party last night, and then the brat pack shows up and my head goes all spinny, and my chest hurts, and... I'm _hot_!" He pulled at his shirt in a fanning gesture.

Erica snorted at the comment, capturing Stiles' attention. He rolled his eyes and searched for a comeback, but the Alpha-wolf interceded before one came to him.

"Stiles, how long has your chest hurt?" Derek asked, stepping out of the shadow with a curious expression on his dour face.

"I dunno, man..."

Scott glanced back and forth between his best friend and his Alpha. He could read the concern and suspicion as it rolled off Derek in waves.

"Just think about it, Stiles. How long?" Scott insisted.

Stiles rubbed his chest and winced, fanning his shirt away from him again. The other trio of Betas inhaled sharply, moving into a tight formation. Stiles couldn't quite make out what the Betas said, but clearly Scott and Derek could. A near-to-silent agreement seemed to run through the pack.

"Take it off." Derek stalked forward in his menacing way.

"W-what?" Stiles stammered, finally managing to sit up without Scott holding him against the bed.

"Take off your shirt."

"Why?" Stiles' eyes went wide, searching and researching the expressions of every wolf in the room.

"Just do it, Stiles," Scott tried to sound strong and reassuring, but it didn't take supersonic wolf hearing to detect the notes of uneasiness that had settled in.

Stiles blushed, then blanched in quick succession. He scanned the room for any excuse, for any way out, but there was no point disobeying an Alpha when his entire pack was congregated in Stiles' bedroom.

He slid out of his hoodie and tugged the hem of his t-shirt up over his head to a chorus of gasps and sharp inhalations.

* * *

10001110101  
A dark ring of bruised and scabbed flesh stood out against Stiles' creamy skin.

"Who did this to you?" Scott's nostrils flared, his eyes flashing wolf-gold protectively.

"What?" Stiles cataloged the expressions of the wolves populating his bedroom, noting fangs here, raised hackles there, and five sets of glowing eyes. Then he turned his gaze back on himself, catching a glimpse of dark against his chest.

He scrambled for the mirror, cringing at his reflection as he gingerly brushed fingertips across the damaged flesh. His mouth fell open in horror.

"It smells dead, man," Isaac muttered, a hand to his face serving the dual purpose of hiding his wolfish features and blocking the scent.

"Am I gonna die?" Stiles was on the verge of a full-blown panic. Screw staying calm in a room of werewolves, his thoughts were running wild and out of control. "H-how did this-? Did that-? What's-? That bitch! Did she-? What's going-?"

The room was spinning again, but this time he managed not to pass out.

Stiles sank heavily to the bed, oblivious to whatever conversation was passing between the pack without him.

"Stiles! _Stiles!_"

Finally Derek's red eyes and Alpha jaws were growling in his face, snapping Stiles back to reality.

"Stiles, I need to know who... whoever it is I can smell on you. Who was she? Did she look like a werewolf?"

"Uh, _no_! She did _not_ look like a werewolf or I'd have run screaming all the way back to Beacon Hills! Jeez, I was trying to get away from you lot! I don't even remember this happening!"

"It's okay, Stiles. Settle down. We're just trying to help here," Boyd sounded level-headed and calm. Usually Scott's job, but Stiles realized he and Isaac had disappeared.

"_Fuck_, dude..." Stiles scrubbed his face in his hands, still trying to come to grips. "She was just a girl! Just some seductive fucking chick on the dance floor. How come I can't avoid this shit? Even when I full-on refuse the bite I get sucker-punched by some supernatural _bullshit_!"

Stiles' anxiety had swiftly turned to anger. He tried to use Boyd's collected expression as an anchor, but couldn't appreciate the teen's composure. He turned his anger and confusion on the Alpha for answers. Derek scowled in return.

"Wolf out," Derek ordered.

"What?"

"Wolf out." Complete lack of understanding showed all over Stiles' face. "I'm trying to force you, like I can my own pack, but it's not working. Get angry."

The Alpha was in Stiles' face, but he couldn't muster any more anger than he was already feeling.

"I don't think it's happening. I don't feel any different in that way at all."

"But he's clearly healing," Boyd addressed his Alpha. "How can he heal if the bite isn't taking?"

Stiles looked down at his still-bare chest. The mark did appear to be somewhat less cringe inducing than before, a little more scarred in than scabbed over. But if he wasn't becoming a werewolf, that would mean his body was rejecting the bite. That meant Stiles would die.

"Maybe it wasn't a werewolf that bit him."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** _Still having issues with the doc manager_'s _editing system, so we'll continue to have binary breaks for the foreseeable future. I'm about to post the gif that loosely inspired the beginning of this fic on my tumblr, if you have any interest in seeing it. So. Allons-y_

* * *

10001110101  
The desert was creeping into the corners of Stiles' bedroom, and she was there again, otherwise he wouldn't have noticed that anything was different.

Stiles sat up, shifting his weightlessness into the balls of his feet so he could approach the feminine figure sitting on his desk.

They weren't quite the same, the girl from the rave and this girl from his dreams. The differences were subtle, but clear now in Stiles' dreaming mind.

The blonde hair was of similar length and shade, the eyes a startlingly mirrored blue, the height and build comparable. The dress still dark and flattering. But this dream girl was somehow fuller where the nameless – Stiles hadn't realized her name had eluded him – dancer had been mostly angles. Her eyes had lost the malice and sharpness he'd noticed before. And within his dreams this young woman, though clearly the same, now seemed separate from his half-formed memories.

He wondered if she hadn't purposefully settled herself under the light of the desk lamp so he'd notice. Specifically so he'd notice what he hadn't quite seen before.

She was quiet under his gaze, still, and accepting his appraising eye.

"The two of you aren't the same," Stiles finally spoke.

She shook her head in agreement, gently tousling that gold hair and revealing the faded bruise against her collar bone.

"But you are the same," he contradicted himself, brushing his hand over the mark with a frown.

She shook her head _no_.

"We were the same," she gently corrected. Her voice, too, seemed ever so slightly softer.

"I don't know what that means," Stiles insisted. He stood very close now, visually inspecting for any detail he may have missed.

Her skin remained cool while Stiles continued to radiate feverish heat even in unconsciousness.

She waited patiently until his eyes met hers again.

"I was that girl. I existed inside her. I'm not her anymore." She slid from her perch on the desk top and stood close against him. "You can feel the difference."

She took his hand and placed it against her bruised collar, and set her own hand over the bite on his chest.

Stiles was startled by the sensation that flooded his hand and arm, running into his chest and back through the girl before him. There was a current like running water churning through them. But he did not wake.

The girl's expression shifted from a friendly neutrality to one of apprehension.

"Do you understand?"

"I-," Stiles hesitated, pulling his hand away from her grasp. "Am I-?"

She nodded expectantly, waiting for him to piece it together on his own.

His mind was beginning to race in that way that generally signaled oncoming consciousness.

Out of the dark corners a wind began to howl and Stiles stepped away from the girl. Her features hardened and her hands went to the blade at her hip. Had it been there the whole time? He wasn't sure.

"You won't be there when I wake up, will you?" Stiles called into the building gale, feverishly shaking as she drew her flaming sword and wakefulness came on.

"Not yet," she managed before plunging into the raging dark.

* * *

1000111010

The wolves were gone. Scott had left soon after Derek's trio of Betas when Stiles refused to let his best friend call the Argents for help identifying whatever had bitten him. The last thing Stiles wanted was the werewolf-hunting family to decide he was some sort of threat to the community. And when the pack consensus was that, aside from the bite itself, Stiles looked and smelled healthy he'd insisted they all get out.

He'd settled back into his pillows and attempted to quiet his mind with sleep, but his dreams only left him more unsettling questions.

Stiles roused himself, noting he'd slept through his usual dinner hour without his father coming home. He shuffled toward the shower in hope that warm water could cleanse the anxiety and confusion from his mind as well as the grime from his body.

* * *

1000111010

Standing before the bathroom mirror, Stiles ran a hand over the bruised indentations of teeth against his chest. Just beneath his clavicle, the ring of the bite stood out against his perpetually pale flesh. At this distance and stage of healing it resembled much more the bite of a human jaw, not a wolf. Or any other sort of were-creature he had encountered in his research so far.

He pondered the possibility that the mysterious girl of sensuality and rhythm was some sort of immune. Like they'd discovered Lydia was immune when Jackson's kanima side had been terrorizing Beacon Hills. Was it possible that so much time with the pack had subtly infected Stiles with wolfish qualities? And even if that were possible, how would a stranger have known? Did she know? Was this a cure? Why would she care?

No, it made too little sense for Stiles' taste. He knew he was clutching at straws, though he was almost certain the answer must be staring him in the face.

His reflection made no reply. But the woman he'd been conjuring in his dreams seemed to know the answers. And weren't dreams the manifestations of unconscious thoughts, waiting to be recognized? He'd felt so sure of himself as he'd broken from dreaming into sleeplessness. But whatever he'd thought he'd known had disappeared as easily as the sun had set.

* * *

1000111010

When he shuffled back into his bedroom, Stiles didn't notice the figure wrapped in shadows beside his dresser. He was about to drop his towel and change into comfortable sweatpants before any indication was made that he wasn't alone.

Derek cleared his throat and Stiles practically jumped out of his skin.  
"Holy shit!" Stiles shouted, clutching his arms across his naked chest. "You weren't invited in! Don't you knock?"

The Alpha rolled his eyes at Stiles' vampire reference. Just because there were werewolves didn't mean there were vampires, and the rules weren't the same anyway, much to Stiles' frequent dismay. And they all knew that.

Stiles was staring wide eyed and expectant at Derek while he silently scowled, one of Stiles' worn t-shirts clutched in his claws. It took too long for the message to sink in, but the man finally got it and turned around.

Stiles hastily re-dressed himself before turning his anger back on the Alpha. He was about to let Derek have it when a noise outside snagged the wolf's attention.

"The sheriff's home. I wouldn't mention this if I were you," the Alpha growled, eyes flashing a warning red. And then, in a rustle of curtains, he was gone.

* * *

1000111010

Stiles didn't mention anything to his dad. He wasn't stupid. When the sheriff asked about his camping trip with Danny, Stiles made up some general stuff about hiking and bird watching. The story raised eyebrows, but Stiles' father seemed to swallow it as truth.

Stiles was reluctant, however, to go back to sleep. He half expected that were he to dream again, the blonde girl would re-emerge and answer the questions he still hadn't muddled through. The other half of him, though, expected he was finally _actually_ going insane. It probably made a lot more sense than any of the supernatural bullshit that he may or may not be able to dredge up from the internet or in the Argents' library. And it wasn't like it'd be the first time Stiles doubted his own sanity.

Stiles had always been a bit of a "problem child." Not like he was a threat to the safety of himself or those around him, but he'd been a little more than rambunctious, and nosy. His curiosity bordered on morbid, and often ended up embarrassing himself or his family. He had occasional mood swings that left him a little destructive. Behavioral medication had begun to even him out in middle school, but he'd been abusing those meds since his mother passed.

There was no telling how screwed up he might actually be.

With a sigh, Stiles decided that even if he was certifiable, it was better to be a well-rested nutcase than an exhausted and irritable one. The only thing he still worried about were more unexpected visitors in the night. He firmly closed and locked all his windows, and shoved a chair under his doorknob. If Derek Hale tried to sneak back in under cover of darkness, he'd have to wake the whole house to do so.

* * *

1000111010

Finally. Finally Stiles had made it through an entire night without a single nightmare or mystery woman haunting his dreams. He woke up and actually felt rested for a change.

He ignored all of Scott's text messages and phone calls until he'd thoroughly completed the homework he'd failed to get done before. And then he ignored him some more while he attempted to research possible reasons for young women to bite you – other than the obvious – without feeling even more crazy. Outside the realm of fetish, he came up with next to nothing.

Stiles was just about to call Scott back when the doorbell rang and there he was on the Stilinski's front porch.

Stiles grabbed his shoes, called out to his dad, and shoved Scott through the door before Scott even had a chance to say hello. He knew he was going to have to talk everything through with his best friend, and he really didn't want to risk his dad picking up on any of it.

"Please, please, please tell me you didn't tell Allison about this," Stiles pleaded as he pulled Scott by the shirt along the sidewalk.

Scott carefully escaped Stiles' grasp, a sheepish look on his face. Stiles turned on him.

"Fuck, dude! Why? What if she tells her dad about it?!"

"She won't!" Scott insisted. "'Sides, all she could think of was gangrene."

The furrows in Stiles' brow lifted. "Great. I'm going to rot." He rolled his eyes.

"No, you're not. You already smell way better than yesterday."

Stiles smirked at Scott's naïveté. "That was a joke, Scott. I know I'm not rotting."

"Oh, right. Man, you've been so touchy lately it's hard to tell."

Stiles frowned. He had been out of sorts for at least a week, and it'd strained their friendship.

"Scott, you're so gullible I can hardly believe you're _ever_ sure I'm joking," Stiles teased gently and got a smile back.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever," Scott punched his arm. "Just... tell me what's going on with you."

Stiles' hand went to the back of his neck and rubbed. "I don't even know."

* * *

1000111010

They'd walked all the way to the drive-in and downed two orders of Elvis fries before Stiles finished describing as many details of his dreams as he could. He went over the appearance of the woman with the flaming sword, the feel of the desert dreamscape, the sound of the wind as it whipped him into consciousness. He tried to puzzle through the bits and pieces that always seemed to elude him upon waking, with Scott's encouragement. But neither of them could come up with any reasonable explanation, though they agreed it must be important.

Stiles also told Scott as much as he dared about the girl at the rave in the desert, leaving out only a few details. He mentally and verbally kicked himself for not bothering to get her name. All he could be sure was that although strikingly similar, the two female figures were not the same. Like fraternal twins, or those cousins who miraculously look alike in soap operas.

Scott was a little shocked at how out of character Stiles' experience at the rave had been. But he was supportive, and _did_ try to understand how it could get frustrating for Stiles to be the go-to man when he wasn't technically a member of the werewolf pack. He was, but he wasn't.

"And now, I'm some sort of mutant. I don't even get to turn venomous like Jackson did." Stiles felt like his face might be pouting, but he didn't even care.

"Thank god, dude. You do _not_ want to be anything like Jackson."

It was true. The Omega to Derek's Alpha remained a bit of a loose canon, and both boys shuddered to think what another unprecedented situation like Jackson's would do to the pack, and their town.

"I mean," Scott continued, trying to be helpful. "Maybe you're a witch. Or like, psychic or something. Maybe the dream girl is your – What d'they call it? - familiar or something?"

"No," Stiles had reluctantly already considered and rejected this possibility. "I'm not turning into Harry freakin' Potter. And familiars are like cats and toads and stuff, not people."

"Well, whatever! I mean, those dreams are prophetic. They've gotta mean something!"

"Yeah, but what?"

* * *

1000111010

In some ways, Stiles felt better after telling Scott what had been troubling him. His friend had promised not to discuss the dreams with his pack, and not to mention anything else to his pseudo-girlfriend, either.

In some ways, though, Stiles only felt worse. And crazier.

The bite was little more than a dark red ring of blunt teeth marks, and Scott had said he smelled healthy, if not quite himself. He rubbed his fingers absently over the dull ache as he settled back into his bed.

In the muffled distance between now and sleep, Stiles thought perhaps he heard the low mournful howl of a wolf.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** _So, everyone is getting wildly OOC. Oh well. Maybe not Danny. No, probably him too. I'm more focused on driving my own plot than getting them spot-on, I guess. Anyway, this chapter's shorter because I just kept writing and writing, so I decided to split it in two. The next one will be a little more explanatory. Again, this is mostly for myself, but I'm glad you've chosen to continue reading, too. Thank you._ ...

* * *

10001110101

"Hey Danny? 'Nother weird question for you," Stiles jogged up to the lacrosse goalie in the middle of a drill during practice Monday morning. The taller boy just rolled his eyes.

"What's the deal, Stilinski?"

"You know that girl, from the party? Did you happen to catch her name?"

Danny's jaw would have dropped if he were prone to such reactions. Instead his half-squinted expression simply asked, _seriously?_, yet the look spoke volumes in Stiles' mind.

"You know what, never mind!" Stiles attempted a fancy spin move to distract the goalie with zero success. He could hear Finstock berating him before he was even half-way back to the end of the line.

* * *

10001110101

Mr. Harris wasn't torturing Stiles for once, but was fully focused on chewing out one of the few AP freshmen in their chemistry class. He'd already separated McCall and Stilinksi, though, so Stiles was passing notes through Lydia, who glowered every time a page slid across the table. He'd had another night of dreamless sleep and was beginning to lean toward the temporary insanity with a side of fetish-attack explanation. But Scott said he still smelled off, and Isaac had obviously sniffed him from across the hall that morning.

"Stiles, flirt on your own time," Lydia hissed as she refused to pass along another note.

"Come on, Lydia," Stiles protested, one eye on the lookout for Mr. Harris' attention.

"No."

"Miss Martin! Mr. Stilinski! Am I going to have to move you a second time?" Stiles winced and Lydia groaned at the sound of Mr. Harris's peeved voice. "Perhaps you'd like to continue your conversation in detention?"

"Really, Mr. Harris, that's not necessary," Lydia simpered. "I'm so done with him."

Harris briefly smirked back before slapping down pink detention slips in front of each of them.

Lydia groaned at their teacher's back as he walked away. Her scowl fell on Stiles and her lips mouthed words that looked suspiciously like _I hate you_. Stiles rolled his eyes back.

* * *

1000111010

Harris had left Lydia and Stiles alone in the chemistry lab, practically daring them to get into some further form of trouble before he returned. Lydia refused to acknowledge Stiles, flipping her strawberry blonde hair over her shoulder to create a barrier between them while she undertook her homework.

Which took practically no time at all. Stiles was 99% certain that she'd had her valedictorian speech prepared since freshman year. He almost felt guilty that he was the cause of probably her only detention, ever. Almost.

With nothing left to do, Lydia carefully repacked her bag, touched up her lip gloss, and updated all of her Words With Friends matches from her cell phone before boredom and curiosity finally took control.

"What the fuck are you guys up to, anyway?" Lydia demanded.

"We're trying to figure out what's wrong with me, and if I've been infected with something."

"What? You're not turning into a furry freak, too, are you?" she scoffed.

Stiles quirked an eyebrow at her. "No. You don't know about the whole-" Stiles gestured manically around himself - "'Stiles got bit by a raver chick' thing?"

"The whole _what_ now?" She gave him a dubious look and a once-over.

He sighed. "I went to this rave with Danny?" His stress turned it into a question. Stiles massaged the back of his neck in a failed effort to relieve his feeling of idiocy. "And I, like, hooked up with this chick," he could feel the blush rising on his cheeks. "and I guess she bit me. I didn't even notice until Scott and Derek said I smelled funny, but..."

He was in disbelief that he was actually telling Lydia all this, but she was in on a lot of the pack's secrets these days, so it really wasn't any different. He lifted his eyes from his focus on a floor tile and met Lydia's incredulous expression.

"Stiles, you're an idiot."

"I know, Lydia." Her expression shifted from scorn to something like a pensive determination.

"What was she?"

"I don't know. Just a girl, as far as I can tell."

"So, you smelled funny because you made out with some girl. What's the big deal? Aside from you making contact with a female." She threw in a harsh barb for good measure.

"The big deal is, apparently, I still smell wrong to the pack. And the bite, once I noticed it, started speed-healing more like a wolf. And how did Jackson not tell you all of this?" Stiles' tone was suddenly accusatory. Lydia just shrugged and frowned.

"He doesn't tell me everything. Thinks it'll protect me. Like I can't take care of myself."

Stiles rolled his eyes. Immune or no, Lydia – and everyone else in Beacon Hills, for that matter – was still in danger from the myriad other horrors lurking around Northern California.

"Besides, you know the pack doesn't tell Jackson everything. Derek doesn't trust him."

Stiles hadn't considered that. Now that he thought about it, Jackson hadn't been around for most of those pack meetings Scott had been dragging him to. Nor had he been a member of Stiles' werewolf surprise party the day after the rave. Maybe he shouldn't have been talking to Lydia about it after all.

Stiles' uncertainty was quickly assuaged.

"Relax. I'm not going to tell him about this." Stiles sighed. "Probably," Lydia added as an afterthought.

* * *

1000111010

When Harris returned to dismiss them, smelling only faintly of cigarettes, Lydia had surprisingly offered to go over the list of "what we know" with Stiles for a little reassurance. She easily waved away Jackson, who didn't look pleased, but didn't argue either, and followed Stiles out to the picnic tables behind the high school gym.

"So, freaky werewolf healing without the werewolf transformation." Lydia listed _healing_ in her notebook in purple ink.

"Check," Stiles confirmed.

"The wolves say you smell weird." She scrunched up her nose and listed _smells_ on the next line.

"Check."

"And all this came after you kissed a girl at a rave." She listed _bitten by raver_ with the other two entries.

Stiles didn't like Lydia's tone of voice with that last one. "Check," he confirmed begrudgingly.

"What else? Anything?"

Stiles fidgeted with the loose laces of his lacrosse stick. He was grateful that Lydia had offered to help, but he was beginning to question his decision to take her up on the offer. Again. What the hell.

"I've also been having these weird dreams. Recurring dreams."

Lydia penned in _dreams_ and hesitated.

"What kind of dreams?" Stiles could feel Lydia's appraising gaze on the side of his face. He fidgeted some more.

"There's this girl, and I'm in the desert, and she's got this flaming sword. And sometimes she kisses me..."

"You're just dreaming about the raver girl, aren't you," Lydia sighed.

"No, no," he insisted. "At first I thought they were the same, but... the dreams started _before_ I went to the desert with Danny."

"Oh."

It grew quiet. Stiles hazarded a glance in her direction, but Lydia's expression had fallen. She looked preoccupied, as if she were wrestling conflicting thoughts in her head, so Stiles continued.

"I mean, after I hooked up with her, I was sure it was the same girl. But then I had another dream right after, and they were definitely different. I feel like she was trying to tell me something. It _felt_ so vivid, even though it was a dream."

Lydia scrawled _prophetic(?)_ in front of _dreams_.

"What do you mean 'vivid'? What did it feel like?" Lydia looked concerned as she asked.

"I dunno. It felt real. Like, even though this girl carries around a sword, and there was a desert in my bedroom, when she put her hands on me it actually _felt_ like someone was there. Like I was interacting with a real person, in real life, and not a dream."

Lydia's cheeks had paled considerably given her generally flawless complexion. It worried Stiles, and his fidgeting increased.

"Lydia?" he hazarded. She looked up at him, but her gaze wasn't seeing him at all.

"That's what it was like when..." she trailed off, voice low. "That's how it was when Peter..."

"Oh. Oh my god! Lydia, I'm sorry, I'd totally forgotten." Stiles tried to apologize, wanted to comfort her for bringing up something that would remind her of how the former Alpha had used her. But what could he do?

He took her hand in his two. That seemed to bring Lydia out of her memories.

She looked down at their hands together over her notebook, then up to Stiles' face. She pulled her hand away, and Stiles snapped back sheepishly.

"It's okay. I'm over it," she began to insist. "I just wonder if that's what your raver dream girl is."

"An evil, manipulative-vengeful-undead, former-Alpha wolf?" Stiles questioned uncomprehendingly, stringing his adjectives together in a hideous mouthful.

"No," Lydia huffed. "Just dead."

1000111010


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **_Another somewhat shorter installment, with a lot more explanatory stuff. I don't know how much sense it will make just yet, but there's a little more foundation for what's been going on and what's going to happen. I'm trying to give this thing a stronger backbone so that it comes together easier down the line. Does that make sense? Oh well. Thanks for making it this far. Cheers!_

* * *

10001110101

Lydia's suggestion had opened a floodgate in Stiles' mind. The only hitch was that Stiles couldn't quite believe that no one else had seen the girl. Danny had, hadn't he? Could all of it really have been a hallucination? Hallucinations didn't leave hickeys.

All the same, bits and pieces of what had alluded him after waking from his dreams began to knit themselves back together. It wasn't a complete picture, but along with his previous ones, whole new ideas were occurring to him.

One other thing Lydia had suggested – when Stiles agreed that this dream girl didn't seem like ghost-Peter in the evil or hallucinatory sense, and they'd both agreed she'd been mostly helpful – was sleeping pills.

Stiles tore out of the parking lot on squealing tires, eager to get home and research, and get to bed.

He poured over paranormal theories and ghost mythology until his mind couldn't take in any more of the paranoid rantings of the "I want to believe" crowd, set out a note and dinner for his dad, then downed some ZzzQuil, climbed on the bed, and texted Scott.

"Got lead on bite-thing. Taking Zquil & searching 4 dream girl. NEED 2 TALK 2MORO!"

When Stiles was satisfied with the message he pressed send, turned out the lamp, and settled back to wait for sleep.

* * *

1000111010

There was no desert, no sand or sparse grasses whatsoever. There was just the darkened room with Stiles in it. And the girl.

He wasn't sure he was actually asleep, or _actually_ seeing the girl until she moved slightly into the light cast by the moon through the window. Everything was dark, but he couldn't seem to move to reach for the lights. His dream limbs felt heavy and immobile like it was time to wake up but he was too stubborn to get out of bed just yet. Except she _was_ there, so he had to be asleep. And he _did_ want to get up.

She stepped closer and observed Stiles' eye on her. One hand grasped the dark outline of her sword hilt as she seemed to probe the darkness with her eerie blue eyes.

"Your body's useless like that," she whispered, sniffing the air as she moved in again. She towered over Stiles, and all he could do was stare up at her from his pillow. "You were smart to take the sleeping meds, but it paralyzes the spirit body when you use so much."

Stiles was hearing her words, but they didn't fully make sense. He worked to form some sort of response, but found his mouth unable to function any better than his hands and arms.

She sat at the edge of his bed and stared intimidatingly into his eyes.

She was slightly different again. Her complexion had a healthier glow about it, even in the dark. And her mouth flicked up slightly at the edges while he watched her think. The once dark bruise against her collarbone was now little more than a sick yellowing smudge with a heart-shaped mark inside it. It matched the one on her arm. The one both she and the "real" girl had shared.

"If you stop trying so hard and relax, you might be able to get your words out," she seemed to soothe, though her eyes remained hard and piercing. She placed her hand back over Stiles' chest, as she'd done in his previous dream, and it felt cool and pulsing even through the sheet. Her gaze softened ever so slightly and traced a comforting circle against the bite-damaged skin.

The gesture reminded Stiles of his mother, which was at first startling. However, he soon felt his body relax and he seemed to sink back into his own skeleton.

"I know what you are," he whispered, carefully shifting his weight into his hands as he sat up in bed.

She smiled.

"So you _are_ as smart as you look after all. Tell me what I am."

Stiles hesitated only for a moment.

"You're dead."

Her eyes hardened, her smile a little bitter. But she sighed and nodded in confirmation. "What else?" she questioned as her gaze returned to his face.

"Ly-Lydia thinks-" he choked on the shallow air in his lungs as she pulled her hand away - "you're some kind of hallucination, as well as being dead. But you said that you and that other girl weren't the same anymore. And I think you've been dead a lot longer than she has."

There was that bitter smile again.

"She's not dead any more than you are, Stiles."

He couldn't remember ever hearing her use his name before. It was strange, and sounded critical on her tongue, like his father sometimes sounded.

"Then what the hell was she?" Stiles' energy and mobility seemed to be returning, and his mind felt clear, yet the pharmaceuticals continued to hold him unconscious. He was going to get the answers he needed.

"She's like you," the woman evaded his question.

Or maybe he'd have to weasel it out of her after all.

"Then if she's like me, and I'm alive, who are you and why are you dead?"

She sighed again and turned away, staring into the darkest corners of Stiles' bedroom. There was still no desert, no howling wind, and her sword remained dark and still at her hip.

"As you say, I'm probably dead. I'm between your world and the next, whatever it might be. I can't reach one or the other. So I exist in the dead space until I can exist again through another. Or until I'm deemed worthy to move on.

"I guess you could say I'm more of a 'spirit' than a ghost."

Stiles watched her thoughts play across her face in shifting flickers of emotion. She was going to tell him everything, he was sure of it. But Stiles got the sense that her bad-ass act was just that, an act, and that there were more troubling things on her mind. Stiles would have to draw it all out of her slowly, and he was grateful that his mind was sharp through his medication-induced sleep.

"Probably dead?" he questioned gently.

The woman pulled her gaze away from the window and focused on Stiles again.

"Yeah, probably. I never found my body after I left it." She studied Stiles' eager and curious expression and sucked in an unnecessary steadying breath. "You want the whole story, I know. With Claire I just needed her body to find you, so I didn't try to show her everything. But you'll need all of it, I'm sure."

Pain flashed across those blue eyes as she straightened, rose from the bed, and drew her sword. Stiles' anxiety rose with the gesture, but he willed himself to remain calm enough to move and speak without succumbing again to immobility. The blade caught fire as the woman plunged it into the wall where the corner came together.

"What the-" Stiles shouted, but she cut him off.

"Between this," she gestured to the flickering light of the sword, "And the sleepy-time drugs, we should be safe."

"Safe?!" Stiles' fear was locking his limbs and pulling him back toward the matress.

"Shhh, Stiles, calm down. I'll try to explain everything. And this time I promise you'll remember."

* * *

1000111010

Stiles' head was spinning. He really, really wanted to wake up, but time was all wonky in his unconscious, and the sleeping drugs were keeping him under a little too well. The girl stood across the room, surveying the night outside the window. Stiles was managing to stay calm enough to be mobile, but the way he used that freedom to pace up and down the carpet betrayed his anxiety.

The young blonde woman was probably dead, and definitely non-corporeal in the waking world. She hopped from person to person, borrowing bodies in an attempt to find her own. And to find another werewolf. That's how she'd found Stiles.

Stiles was what she called a conduit, predisposed to attracting the supernatural simply because he'd been born. The girl he'd met, danced with, and made something like love to at the party was also a conduit. The dream girl called her Claire. She'd appeared as Claire in Stiles' dreams in order to ensure that the two of them came together, marking Stiles for a sort of transfer of spirit from one conduit to another. It helped that the girls actually did look a fair bit alike. It was meant to soften the transition for Stiles.

But because the supernatural was already wreaking havoc on Beacon Hills in the form of werewolves, it was more difficult and dangerous for the transfer from Claire to Stiles to occur. There were ghosts all around them, all the time apparently, but some of them were _thicker_ than just ghosts, like she was. And the ones that had roamed too long were rarely happy spirits. Stiles' dream body shuddered as he thought of the way Peter's spirit had manipulated Lydia in order to bring his body back to life. But this was different, Stiles was sure. This girl wasn't looking to return to the living, but felt she needed to redeem herself in order to join the dead.

And to do that, she was determined to find her werewolf.

* * *

1000111010

"So why?" Stiles had paused mid-pace and was once again trying to pierce the heart of the matter by staring intently into the blonde woman's face. "Why here, why werewolves, why now?"

The girl sighed and slid from her perch atop Stiles' dresser. "Because... I need to know what happened, and be sure that no one else get's hurt the way I did. Because I was like you: a human amongst wolves. It's hard for me to talk about because I'm already losing the details of how I ended up like this. But if you let me, I can share everything with you. You'll see everything I see, and maybe understand why this is so important."

"How?"

"By completing the connection. If you let me attach to you, I can keep you safe and figure this thing out before anyone else gets hurt."

Stiles nervously chewed his thumb nail.

"What'll happen?" he asked, attempting to mask the fear in his throat.

She drew closer. She quietly observed his wide-eyed expression before carefully replacing her hand over his chest.

"I'll be attached to you. I'll be silently with you at all times. I'll be able to observe your pack through you, and see if they know mine. You'll know my memories and see the ghosts I see, but I'll protect you from that." She felt him inadvertently shudder. "Don't worry, it's not all at once. I won't overwhelm you. In fact, you might feel stronger. Like the way this healed over."

She pushed gently against his chest and Stiles couldn't help noticing the heart-shaped marks on her skin again. They mirrored her conduits. He wondered if there were more marks like that hidden beneath the fabric of her dress.

"Please, Stiles? I'd prefer to have your permission."

Stiles' mind was still racing, but a new thought had occurred to him as she spoke. Was it worth it?

He had to find out.

"Alright, let's do it." He exhaled slowly, tasting the words as they came out. "You have my permission."


End file.
